Persephone bit her lip. “You are sure she won’t be able to stay?”

Or hurt me?

“Only if she is invited,” Hecate promised before vanishing.

Persephone was alone for only a few minutes when the smell of sage and burning wax was cut with the scent of wildflowers and a sharp chill.

Strange.

Demeter’s magic usually felt warm like a pale spring sun.

Persephone turned, and found her mother standing in the shadow of her room. Demeter hadn’t changed, except for looking far more severe than she remembered. She wore blue robes, and her gold hair lay straight, parted at the center, framing her beautiful and cold face. Her antlers were both elegant and dreadful. They filled space, making Persephone’s room more cramped. She was perfection, and her presence sucked the air out of Persephone’s lungs.

“Daughter,” she said coldly.

“Mother,” Persephone acknowledged.

The goddess of harvest studied Persephone, probably picking apart her appearance. Demeter hated her curly hair and freckles, and when given the chance, she’d cover them up with her glamour. Whatever she saw there didn’t change her severe expression, and after a moment, her gaze swept the room.

“Am I too hopeful? Have you summoned me to beg my forgiveness?”

Persephone wanted to laugh. If anyone should beg forgiveness, it was Demeter. She was the one who had kept Persephone a prisoner most of her life, and even when she’d released her, it had been on a long leash.

“No, I have summoned you to tell you to stop interfering with my life.”

Demeter’s cold gaze returned to Persephone. Her hazel eyes turning yellow in the candlelit.

“Are you accusing me of something, Daughter?”

Persephone felt a little uneasy. It occurred to her that her mother might be responsible for more than Leuce’s release from the poplar tree—what other plans did she have to force her away from Hades?

“You released Hades’ former lover from her prison,” Persephone said.

“Why would I bother with something so trivial?” Demeter sounded bored, but Persephone wasn’t convinced.

“Good question, mother.”

Demeter turned from her daughter, and began snooping around her room, inspecting, judging. She pulled open her nightstand drawers and opened anything with the lid, wrinkling her nose.

“This place smells like Hades,” she said, and then she straightened, eyes narrowing upon Persephone. “You smell like him.”

Persephone crossed her arms over her chest and glared at her mother.

“I hope you’re using protection,” Demeter said. “That’s all you need—to be tied to the God of the Dead for the rest of your life.”

“That’s a given,” Persephone said. “You’re the only one who seems to think it isn’t.”

“You don’t know Hades,” she said. “You’re just now learning that for yourself. I know it bothers you. You fear what you don’t know.”

Persephone hated her mother for being right.